An Evening in Modesto

It was late and the Old Mill Diner on 9th Street already seemed ancient in 1972. Curt and I sat in vinyl booths polished smooth by millions of bodies over the years. The Formica table had gouges, and a few initials carved into it. Just a few customers sat at the counter and the waitress lazily performed her duties with what seemed a minimum of effort.

The place smelled of coffee, cigarettes and grease. The way a diner should.

The almost wrap-around windows could have been cleaner, but we could see our bikes parked outside in the neon lights of the dirt parking lot. There were no bugs this time of year.

As we finished our hamburgers, Curt said, “After that ride from So Cal, I hope Jim takes us back to the house to get some rest.”

I said, “That’ll be the day!”

Hearing a roar, we saw the long front ends and small headlights of four shiny choppers swing into the lot, their riders bouncing on rigid frames and chrome gleaming in the neon lights. Boots were stomping on suicide clutches and gloved hands reached down for the gear shirt to find neutral.

It was Gentleman Jim, with Chuck, Kanaka and Phil. Part of his trusted Modesto crew. Jim had his latest girlfriend Carol on the back.

They switched off their engines and before the kickstand was down, Carol lightly hopped off before Jim swung a leg off the bike. Reaching into his back pocket he pulled out a large comb and started to make those long wavy brown locks behave. He mostly succeeded, except for one curl that hung down the middle of his forehead.

Pulling off their gloves, the others patiently waited until he stepped to the door and opened it for Carol.  She stepped inside then waited as Jim blew past her, with heavy boots clumping on the wood floor. He lead the small group at a brisk walk like you might expect Elvis or John Wayne to do. In fact, Jim always reminded me of a cross between those two.

With his neatly trimmed beard, he wore his cut over a leather jacket and hand-made leather pants patterned from a disassembled pair of Levis. A chrome chain belt hung from his waist looking like cartridges on a pistol belt. At six foot two, with wide shoulders and narrow hips, Jim had style.

He loudly announced, “Old Blue Eyes and TD Wheel Stand, Cut ‘em Quick Wilson!” I cringed and shook my head at the new nickname he had given me. But Blue Eyes fit Curt perfectly. He was dark and handsome with eyes that made him look like a Cossack warrior.

Power and Beauty

“How’d the ride up ‘99’ go?” he said as he plopped into the booth beside me. Carol sat next to Curt, looking about eighteen with her cute face, trim body and wavy brunet curls, she was a stripper at the Classic Cat Bar on ‘J’ Street. The other guys picked the booth between us and the door.

Curt said, “Man, it was colder than hell over the Grapevine. In Gorman the water buckets to clean your windshield were frozen, I couldn’t feel my hands. Near Chowchilla we had to tuck in behind a semi to try to keep warm. I’m not coming up here this time of year anymore!”

Jim laughed and said, “Yeah, been there, done that, but you’re here now, let’s go to a bar and get a drink!” (He pronounced it ‘drank.’)

I looked at Curt with a smile and said, “See what I mean?”

Blue Eyes shrugged and said hopefully, “Maybe there will be some girls.”

They’d already eaten, so we paid our checks which came to about $1.50 each.

When they piled out of the booth I stood up and pulled my leather jacket over my head. With zippers down the sides, it was more of a heavy leather shirt with a padded liner, but this time of year it wasn’t enough. Walking toward the door I put on my military surplus Navy ‘foul weather’ jacket and over that my tattered old London Fog trench coat, also with a liner. Even with Long Johns and two pairs of Levis, at this time of year it was barely enough.

Once outside we walked to our bikes. They all with long front ends and flashy paint jobs. Each individually built, were pieces of art reflecting their owner’s style.

The night was clear and cold, moonlight and neon sparkled off the chrome.

We kick started them to life and soon the parking lot was rumbling as if it was alive with steel beasts anxious to stretch their legs.

Jim pulled out first, I swung into position on his right and Curt tucked in behind him. The others, not being patch holders yet, fell in behind us. In a tight pack, we roared up 9th Street trying to ignore the cold wind again.

For twenty minutes we cruised along in formation on dark country roads, lined with fruit trees and cornfields. I had no idea where I was or where we were going.

Finally, we pulled into the crowded parking lot beneath the bright sign in front of a County/Western bar. Lining up our bikes near the street, we shut them down. As the noise of our engines faded it was replaced by the music from the bar. The place was busy.

I took off the long gloves I had made and tucked them over the engine to keep warm. Unbuttoning my coat and jacket, I left them on, as did the others. We didn’t know how long we’d be here.

Following Jim and Carol through the door, the rest of our crew followed. The music continued to play, but the conversation got quiet as people turned to look. The room was long and narrow with a live band at the far end and lighted beer signs behind the bar. The air was thick with the smell of hamburgers, sweat and cigarette smoke.

There were lots of cowboys and the looks didn’t seem friendly, but we were used to that. I wondered if Jim had a reason for coming here.

Feeling all eyes upon us, we spotted an empty space at the bar and went over to order drinks. Beer for Curt and I, Tequila Collins for Jim and Carol, as she hopped onto an empty barstool, the other boys ordered beer too.

Soon conversation seemed to pick up as the locals went back to their business and stopped staring.

The cold beer tasted good since I was already hot in my riding gear, but I was not comfortable enough to take it off either.

Soon Jim was joking and laughing with someone standing at the bar and I began to relax a bit. Maybe this would be an easy night after all.

Curt was checking out the young ladies, whether they were accompanied or not. Some smiled at him as their dates glared back.

Chuck, Phil and Kanaka found an empty wall near the front door and drank their beer as they watched the room.

We’d been there long enough for Curt to order two more beers for him and me when a large drunk cowboy walked by and bumped into Jim. Of all the people to pick on!

Then he stopped and stared at him.

Jim smiled at the guy and said, “Hey Bud, it’s no problem, I know you didn’t mean to do that… Did you?”

An ‘excuse me’ would have worked, instead he said, “We don’t like your kind in our bar.”

Trying to be diplomatic, Jim said, “Take it easy Hoss, we’re just here for a drink, c’mon, let me buy you one.”

The guy glared at him as Jim reached back to put his glass on the bar without taking his eyes off our new friend.

I noticed the men in the crowd start to press towards us, looking to Chuck and the boys over by the wall, they were moving forward too.

I thought, ‘Here we go again.’

The drunk guy saw the rest of the bar getting ready to back him and that seemed to get his courage up.

“I don’t want no drink from y’all, get the hell out of our bar.”

Jim said, “Aw c’mon Cuz, no reason to be like that,” as he put his left hand on the guy’s right shoulder, trying to act friendly.

When the drunk cowboy reached up to knock the hand off his shoulder, Jim’s right hand was a blur as it snapped out and caught him on the jaw, knocking him backwards over a table before he sprawled out on the floor. He didn’t get up. People that Jim hit rarely did.

Suddenly it seemed the whole bar was on us. At least fifty against six. Chuck, Phil and Kanaka appeared beside us as we formed a line with our backs to the door, swinging, kicking and ducking. The narrow room worked in our favor as the patrons in the bar got in each other’s way as they tried to get at us.

Curt and I held our own, but Jim and his crew seemed to be knocking people down with each punch. Having just turned twenty years old, I felt like a lightweight, after hitting someone as hard as I could but never knocked anyone out. I was jealous.

I glanced at the barstool for Carol, but she had disappeared.

The front door was not far behind us as we backed toward it. The progress of the cowboys to our front was slowed as they had to step over their buddies on the floor.

The noise was deafening with chairs and tables being knocked over and people yelling and swearing, swinging and fighting. The band had stopped playing.

Soon we spilled out through the front door onto the sidewalk. Five cowboys got out with us among the cars parked at the front of the building while the rest of the Modesto boys held the crowd at bay so they couldn’t get out. Trying to get out the door from the inside became a dangerous place to be.

Jim and Curt and I were left to the ones who were foolish enough to follow us out. As Jim’s boxing skills made short work of two of them, I got the bright idea to hop onto of a car’s hood to use my feet instead of my fists.

Immediately one of our opponents quickly swept my legs out from under me. I landed on my back and rolled off the hood onto the ground between cars as the guy stood over me and raised his arm…

Before he could swing, I kicked upward and planted my foot between his legs. He decided he didn’t want to play anymore, turned and hobbled off.

By the time I got to my feet, the six of us were alone on the sidewalk. The door had swung closed and no one seemed to want to come out of the bar.

That was fine with us. Gasping for air we turned to walk toward our bikes laughing and asking if everyone was okay. I was relieved to see Carol patiently standing there waiting. She rolled her eyes and shook her head as if to say, “Men!”

With all that exercise in my heavy riding clothes, I had worked up a sweat. I was grateful for the padding to cushion blows to my body. My hands hurt, but I was amazed that my face didn’t, I guess I got lucky.

Looking back toward the bar, some of the patrons were standing outside watching us. I was grateful that no one had pulled a knife or a gun. That can really spoil the fun sometimes.

Firing up the bikes, we could hear sirens in the distance, so we took off in the opposite direction.

Once again blasting along the dark country roads in a tight pack with the moon overhead, I watched my rearview mirror to see the headlights of the other guys, but there were no red lights flashing in the distance. Riding in my now damp clothes, I was freezing my ass off.

I hoped we were on our way back to Jim’s rented farmhouse surrounded by cornfields, to call it a night. But then, knowing Jim, he was probably just getting started.

As the bike rumbled beneath me and my teeth chattered, I thought to myself, ‘Just another typical night in Modesto.’

Gentleman Jim